#call of duty cold war pictures

[efingcod]

Frank Woods - Redlight, Greenlight

[skaamit]

Оу... в «Black Ops 6» есть скин с обложки «Black Ops Cold War».

Афигенно. Уже лучший облик в игре. Фармим его.

Call of Duty Black Ops 6 / Xbox Series S

🟢 xbox.com

[celenawrites]

John Price is a natural leader.

Always taking the lead on the field and off duty. Always confident, self-assured in his abilities to guide himself and others through difficult situations with ease.

He's always so worried about his team - slipping in some antihistamines in Gaz's pockets whenever his dust allergies kick in and make his sneezes ring out on base at ungodly hours, making sure Johnny doesn't end up recklessly in another communal mess 'fight'', and checking up on Simon after a rough mission drains all life out of his blue eyes, leaving him dull and mute from the trauma of surviving another war.

He never forgets to wish his teammates birthday, always tries his best to push them to take extra leaves so they can visit family and rest after an arduous mission, and even indulges in their frivolous past times, if only to make time pass by easier.

He always remembers to send Kate and her wife flowers as a 'thank you' for hosting him for dinner, never forgets to call Laswell and congratulate her on successful jobs, and makes sure to send the finest bottle of wine for letting some of his 'rebellious actions' go under the radar.

So when he finally comes down with the seasonal flu, you take it upon yourself to reciprocate the generosity he graces everyone with - not letting the man leave the warm, soft bed as you tend to every need of his throughout the day.

"Sweetheart, get back to bed. I'll be fine", John tells you but his stuffy nose makes his voice sound more nasally than usual.

You tut at him, recalling his high temperature, "I cannot laze around while you're suffering and need me, John. Now let me take care of you, and put the cold compress on."

"Yes ma'am."

You run around, from room to room - arranging things and making sure to check in on your dear fiance to make sure he's not in pain while you prepare some home remedies for him.

A herbal mixture you make him drink for his sore throat, which Price downs with a small wince; changing his cold compress with a new one so he can rest comfortably. Turning down the lights so that his eyes don't smart anymore, and he can actually take a nap around noon while you work on lunch - chicken noodle soup and warm porridge that can warm him up from inside and are easy on the stomach - recalling every little trick your Mum did whenever you got sick.

And when you finally come back in the room to find John sleeping, you take a moment to breathe calmly as you slowly admire him. His flushed cheeks, freshly-trimmed mutton chops, his freckle on his nose and how his nose scrunches up while he's deep in his sleep, and how oddly comforting it is - to have him in your home, to see him resting after months of separation and knowing that he possibly hasn't slept this peacefully in ages.

"Take a picture, darling. It'll last ya longer", calls out a raspy voice, followed by a dry chuckle.

Felling your ears warm up at being caught by the very object of your attention, you promptly deflect, "Oh, shut it, you big dork. Lunch's ready, if you'd like to have it."

"With you?" John asks rhetorically, with a small fond smile on his face.

"Always."

[badgrammerlieshere]

Fire

Just thought I would throw this together. It has not been double checked :p

The flames dancing in the fireplace hardly filled the ever-cold room with any warmth. It was puzzling why the servants continued to stoke the flames as nothing would ever take away the biting cold that nipped at your bare feet and naked shoulders.  It had been hours since he had left. The minutes before, we were showered in a skittish energy. Aegon had sat on the bed, the sheets disarray a picture of past activities. The tension in his shoulders was evident with every small movement. For a man so eager for war you knew he feared it so. You had come up behind him and wrapped your arms around his sturdy figure. Aegon had taken his shaking hands and pulled you from behind him and into his lap.

“You needn't go” you had said curling the small pieces of hair that always lay near his brow.

“A king belongs on the battlefield, everyone knows that” he replied a smile not meeting his eyes as he caught your hand in his own pressing a small kiss against your wrist.

“The King belongs here. With me. You are vulnerable outside of these walls Aegon.” A real smile spread across his face this time. Aegon leaned forward pressing his forehead against your own humming softy.

“Sounds as though you worry for me. What would your mistress Sylvie think?

“She would think me very foolish.” You exclaimed moving from his lap towards the privacy screen at the other end of the room. The mention of your true nature only stood to remind you of your position in this room, this castle, this world. You and Aegon were nothing outside of this room. Just a boy pretending to be a king and a whore playing the part of a dutiful lover. Fastening the ties of your dress you took a look outside of the barrier. Aegon had resumed his distant posture. Though you had no marital ties to one another he hadn't lied you did worry for him. Aegon was never built for war. He had a softer underbelly that was easily exposed.

“Can you promise me one thing?” your voice shook him out of his stupor his hand outstretched as he beckoned you closer.

“Anything.”

“You will call upon me tonight?” you blushed at the pleading tone in your voice. To make such a demand of a king was ludicrous. Aegon also appeared shocked at your question before standing off the bed and drawing you close to his chest. His arm snaked around your waist.

“How about you wait for me? No need to waste time calling for you. Remain here until I return.” He unhooked one arm from his place behind your back and cradled the side of your cheek. Brushing over the smooth skin. A broad smile found itself on your face.

“If that is what you desire, my grace.”

That had been hours ago the sun had long set since then and the palace had been deathly quiet. Hoards of soldiers had been sent to fight. Servants had made themselves scarce and quiet. With only a few reappearing to stoke the flames of the unnecessary fire. A cat sat in the middle of your lap. Sleeping on the job. Only the distant thumping of wings attracted your attention. A dragon. The army. The battle. They had returned. Aegon. You hurriedly rushed for the door at the great upset of the cat which disapproved of its bed suddenly moving. You opened the door only slightly looking for any moving bodies there was loud chatter in the throne room. Aegon often retreated into his cups late into the night but he could never forget you. He had asked you to stay. Hoping perhaps that he would soon be appearing at the door you slowly closed it shut and awaited his arrival. But it never came. It was only until the castle fell silent once more did you made your move. With meager steps, you slunk about the corridors grasping with hope that you would encounter a head of silver hair and a playful smile. Eventually, you found yourself in front of the small council chambers an unusual place for Aegon to end up but perhaps there was an emergency meeting after the rooks rest.

Pushing the door open you were greeted by a dark room. No fire was kept stoked but in the center of the room in the chair of the king a man with silver hair sat.

“Aemond.” His name left your mouth in a whisper. And his head jerked up to look at you. He hadn't expected to see you or anyone for that matter.

“What are you doing here.” he stood and prowled around the table.

“I was waiting…for Aegon.” At the mention of his brother Aemond looked away facing the small chart of battle plans laid on the other side of the room.

My brother will not be needing a whore tonight. It will do you well if you head home. Your services aren't needed here.” His answer was curt and short. “Perhaps if you are lucky you will find a man to spare you a coin on the way home.” His answer filled you with a sickly feeling that hit the pit of your stomach. It wasn't often you found yourself in the presence of Aemond. Often Aegon had such a need for your company that he rushed you into his chambers without a moment to spare. And while the young prince had frequented the brothel he often found comfort in the company of your mistress.

“Where is he? Before I take my leave that's all I wish to know.” You moved slowly behind Aemond trying to catch his gaze. While it was true Aegon could be cruel he would never abandon you like this. The only time in which he had cast you aside was the night of his father's death. And since then you had scarcely left his side.

“Arent whores supposed to be agreeable. I've said leave.” Aemond finally turned to face you. “Aegon is indisposed.” A small smirk graced the prince's face. Which only further fueled the small pocket of hate and worry in your heart.

“Have you done something?” The words took to the air before you could fully process them and from the look on his face, they shocked him as much as you. Aemond quickly schooled his face.

“You speak of treason.”

“It's only a question.” Your fear of what the answer was pushed you to grasp for answers. What had happened to Aegon? Only this morning he had been in your arms. Now his presence was a mystery. Aemond’s lack of answer made the flurry of nerves erupt in your body.

“You have, haven't you? Though I'm sure it was nothing but an “accident”. Your hate consumes you Aemond. It makes you foolish.” The bite of your words through themselves into the air.

“Don't pretend to know of my hate.” Aemond stepped closer to you putting his hand against the hilt of a dagger at his hip.

“You're not quite as hard to read as you think. Your thoughts soak through these layers you wear. Not to mention my madame has a penchant to talk.” At the mention of Sylvie, Aemond recoiled and with it, you took another step forward. “Kinslayer. That's what they call you in the streets. She tells me of your guilt and remorse, but I see none. Besides what's a brother when you've already killed a cousin?

Like a flash of light Aemond had you turned your back to his chest as he placed his dagger against the soft hollow of your throat.

“You will do well to hold your tongue when you speak to me or it shall be your last words.” He pulled you closer to himself and traced his eyes across the slope of your nose.

“A shame your beauty was wasted on him.” Disgust was evident in your eyes as you eyed Aemond.

“Don't bother my prince. I'm not sure my age would appeal to you.” He roughly pushed you away looking embarrassed.

“Leave.”

“What of Aegon?” The thoughts of your young king still swirled. The One-eyed prince looked up and surveyed your worried expression before saying nothing and turning back to the board of war details. It was an obvious dismissal. You would get no answers here. With that, you turned and left the room.

[minbells]

impossible future

armin arlert x gn!reader

content: fluff, very soft, slight angst, implied sex but non-explicit, one curse word, during time-skip, implied that it’s the day before the attack on Marley.

words: 1.4K

He was always wondering where you were. It was strange, really. Before meeting you, he never had anything that plagued his mind other than the thought of a vast world outside the walls. He would picture fiery lands and cold mountains, inspired by the pictures in his books. He would even see those sights in his dreams, imagining what it would be like to ride his horse through those magical landscapes, his friends by his side. Maybe even the air would smell different, perhaps sweeter than the scent of blood and shit he was so familiar with. Every night he dreamt of this world, the taste of freedom on his tongue.

Now, he dreams of you.

Especially at times like this. When it was quiet and late into the night, and he knew, he feared, how dangerous tomorrow would be. Even his trusty book, with its few pages loose and damaged from the years of flipping through it, wasn’t distraction enough. He trailed his fingers over the fading pictures, brushing over them with a gentleness only he possessed, and sighed. What he failed to notice was how your careful gaze was observing him in silent worry.

"You look tired."

He startled, the beautiful sound of your voice, delicate and concerned, digging him out of his reverie. When he raised his head from his book, he was more than ready to take in the sight of you, his beautiful angel who still made him blush even after months of intimacy. And you didn’t fail to disappoint him, your form standing in the opening of his private tent. He felt immediate relief.

"I didn’t think I would see you tonight," he smiled faintly, the light in his once bright blue eyes dimmed but not yet extinct. Your expression mirrored his, tired and worn out with years of sleepless nights and deadly expeditions. You turned to close the slight gap in the tent’s opening, tying the knot and smoothing the thick fabric, thus forbidding the outside world to enter your little haven.

"Hange was done with the last few details of the plan, not that I was much help to them anyways. I figured I’d come see you…" you trailed off, words left unsaid. It might be the last time we ever see each others like this. After all, you were about to set the world on fire and you doubted you could come back from this unscathed.

Well, Armin would never miss an opportunity like this one. He raised from his chair, carefully putting the worn book aside. You stood there, quiet and sleepy, unmoving as you admired him. His face was illuminated by the dimming candlelight, and while he walked the few steps that separated the two of you, you took in the intricate details of his features. It had been impossible not to fall in love with his complexion; faint freckles on his sun kissed nose, long blonde eyelashes kissing his cheeks with a blink and the soft, inviting pink plump of his lips. He called you an angel, and yet he was the otherworldly one.

The rest of his body was just as beautiful, strong yet surprisingly gentle, seemingly untouched by hunger and pain. But you knew better. You noticed how his eyes seemed to hold the burden of war and duty. You remembered oh so clearly the nights spent crying silent tears or screaming ugly sobs in each others arms. The fear of losing each others, the horror he felt at the thought of losing control and annihilating everything around him, losing friends and dying with dreams unfulfilled. These nights were all too familiar. You desperately sought for nights where gentle touches and private smiles were exchanged.

So in this moment, when you knew that if you extended your hand right in front of you, you could touch him and feel at peace, nothing could hold you back. Therefore, the only logical choice was to move forward.

And he immediately caught your extended fingers in his warm hand. You could never comprehend how soft his palms were, even after years of harsh work and training. Every soldier you knew had their hands hardened by years of slaying Titans and fighting to survive. Armin was just different, you thought. He slayed with his tongue and battled with his mind. It seemed the only purpose for his hands was to gently hold yours.

You pressed your palm on his chest, eager to feel his heartbeat. You never went a day without feeling his pulse soothing you. And he let you. The atmosphere outside the tent was tense, soldiers either readying themselves for what tomorrow would bring or drinking until they couldn’t stand. However, right in the middle of your little world bathed in candlelight and soft touches, everything seemed timeless, free from burdens and duties.

Armin leaned towards you and pressed his cheek against your forehead. He enjoyed the feeling of your warm skin against his own, your steady breath hitting his neck and your hair tickling his cheek.

"You know," he started, your skin warm, his heartbeat steady, "I’ve read about this type of fish in the ocean that we’ve never seen before. In the book, they call them 'sharks'."

You hummed, your eyes half lidded with sleep. "Sharks?" He nodded, and in a moment of tenderness, he tilted his head to kiss your cheek before returning to his previous position. You couldn’t help but smile.

"Apparently they are predators of the sea, vicious and dangerous. They come in all shapes and sizes, and they’re all hunters. The book even mentions how they have teeth sharp like razors and that they possess the ability to smell a drop of blood in the water from long distances."

"They sound quite awful. Build to kill." Your mind conjured the sight of a deadly sea animal, with teeth long and sharp like swords, eyes scarlet red and a body as big as those Marleyan boats.

"Maybe they’re just misunderstood," Armin whispered. His voice felt like a saccharine melody dripping into your soul and his hands started playing with your hair. "Perhaps it’s in their nature."

For a second, you noticed how his voice trailed off, mind lost somewhere you couldn’t follow.

"Then we should befriend them," your silly suggestion tugged a smile on his lips. "After all this. We could find out where they like to swim and build a little house there. Even if it’s in the middle of the sea." You pressed your cheek to his chest and he wrapped his arms around your waist. "We could observe them and maybe we’ll discover that they’re not so bad after all. Perhaps the biggest ones are the friendliest, the most gentle and caring sharks of all. And we’ll use your beautiful talent with words to rewrite history books and make sure those creatures are never misunderstood again."

"It seems you’ve got it all figured out," he chuckled. Walls, he loves you so much.

"Of course," it was the most obvious thing after all. Were you to survive all of this, you knew you’d spend the rest of Armin’s days exploring beyond the sea with him and befriending the world. "We’ll build our cottage, we’ll even get a dog, or three, and we’ll ride our horses onto the beach," you were mumbling against his shirt and you only now noticed how you both had unconsciously started to sway together, dancing to the music of your future.

"We could open a bookstore," he suggested, and his eyes lit up at the thought. It seemed you had both decided to ignore your impending doom. It was much more pleasant to picture yourself with Armin, walking on sandy beaches hand in hand, playing with your dogs in the fields, cooking delicious meals together, and making love into the night.

"With… lots of books in all sorts of dialects." You felt yourself dozing off, yet you fought sleep with all your might just to appreciate the moment for just a second longer. "A whole collection of books dedicated to sharks. And… multicoloured seashells and rocks to brighten up the place."

"Hmm," his eyes were closed, lost in the fantasy. Acting on instinct, he slowly and gently guided the both of you to the bundle of blankets you had accumulated on his cot over the last few weeks. You followed without question and giggled when he tugged your body so you both fell on the pile of softness. "Let’s make plans for tomorrow then."

You smiled gently and settled next to him. You tangled your legs together while he wrapped the thin blanket over your bodies.

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

He knew that tonight he would be dreaming of you and your impossible future together.

[starlight-bread-blog]

Do you think there's a more complex and nuanced outcome as a result of Katara marrying Zuko rather than it just being Katara becoming a fire lady? Especially since, technically, she's the daughter of a chief and that considers her to be a tribal princess like Yue.

That is a good question. I suppose I don't think there's a situation where Katara marries Zuko and doesn't become fire lady. Since the definition of the word is, and correct me if I'm wrong, the Fire Lord's wife. But if you mean whether she'll live in a palace, I believe that she will.

According to this article she also lived Far From Home (lol) with A\ang, and in their family picture none of them wear clothes for the SWT's cold weather. Which does make sense with how fine she was with leaving to find Aang and how she spent the entire series away from home and the show rarely treated it as an issue to be dealt with. Additionally, now that the war is over she can pay regular visits to her home.

But that doesn't mean that the chief's daughter becoming fire lady isn't complex and nuanced. First thihgs first, I want to go through what being the fire lady & daughter of the chief would mean.

The fire lady doesn't seem to have duties, since we never see Ursa do anything for the Fire Nation. But it at least has to grant you respect and THE connection to the Fire Lord. Katara isn't Ursa, and is passionate & active in nature. The role comes with a certain power that can assist with one's political pursuits greatly.

As for her being a tribal princess, as opposed to the Fire Lady, Yue explicitly that she has duties.

Yue: You don't understand. I have duties to my father, to my tribe.

But Yue was probably the heir to the throne. She had no siblings as far as we know, and she says "my tribe". I don't know whether the north would accept a female chief, given how sexist it was. But some evidence there is to support that she was the heir is this line from her fiance:

"Perks". If she was going to marry him for him to become the chief despite having no other connections to the bloodline, he wouldn't casually call becoming a chief a "perk". Furthermore, when Sokka tries to hit on her, he remarks of their simularities as they're both a prince and a princess. And Sokka is ann heir, he's the future chief.

It's likely that they were arranged for other political reasons and Yue was going to become queen. Whether she was going to be respected/accepted is up in the air.

But we do know of another heirs that might help us get a fuller picture: Eska and Desna. They had a duty to their father as a prince and a princess. It was their wish to help their father whom they believed was a great man. Which isn't typical for an heir. This is why we can look at their case to see what Katara's life as the daughter of the chief would look like. In their case, they helpped the NWT in whatever they thought was right. And it's likely that so would Katara.

What does that leave us with? A role that grants her political power in the Fire Nation with no duties, and a person with a duty to the Southern Water Tribe.

The Positive

To me this paints a clear picture: Katara would use said political power to push the Fire Nation to rehabilitate the Southern Water Tribe from their atrocities.

I'm not the first person to show these before vs. After pics, but it's very important to remember the sheer extent of the Fire Nation's harm to Katata's home.

Before:

After:

And until the show ended, Katara was still the last waterbender of the south. Don't get me wrong, it IS Zuko's job to rehabilitate the SWT. But she'd want this.

Katara always want to help those around her by any means necessery. If it's getting captured in a Fire Nation prison or blowing up a factory, she will find the power to help others. So the power to fix the wrongs inflicted on her own culture and home being given to her, just for loving who she wants to love, is incredibly rewarding and narrativly satisfying.

The Negatives

1. All of what I've just described is good in theory, but in practice she's likely to face immense backlash. The people of the Fire Nation have been indoctrinated into believing the war was good and were fed Fire Nation propaganda since their school days (The Headband) and continued well into adulthood (Ember Island Players).

Suddenly the new fire lord comes along and decides that the war they've been fighting fir a 100 years is bad actually. And NOW he's dating a waterbender and the daughter of the chief, no less. + Suddenly the girl is starting to have demands. She'll be one of the most cobtroversial figures of that era, and that's no easy task.

2. It opens the door for one bad situation that no one could be blamed for. What if Zuko's heir would be a waterbender? That cannot be. Will the role of the heir go to whoever's a firebender/none bender regardless of order? What would it make their kids feel? Will Zuko be okay with how it'd make his kids feel? It raises so many questions, so many complexities and there seem to be no winners.

But looking at these negatives from a perspective of literary merit, as A:TLA is a fictional work, are these really negatives? I'd say no. There is no real suffering at stake here, only captivating conflicts to be explored. In real life, these nasty situations have to be dealt with. They're raw, they're complicated, and in literature, that's good. Conflicts are the oxygen of a story. Especially ones with no easy answers.

In conclusion, Katara marrying Zuko would make her the fire lady. This would lead to complex and nuanced situations, both good and bad, making for excellent conflicts/character progressions.

I don't know if this is the answer you wanted, but these are my thoughts. Thank you for the ask and have a nice day! 💕

[littlemissclandestine]

Why I think Russell Adler is going to make a comeback in COD 2024

WARNING⚠️: Contains spoilers for Call of Duty: Black Ops Cold War and Call of Duty: Black Ops 2

Disclaimer: This is all just speculation on my behalf of course. I've just tried piecing stuff together for fun because Russ is one of my fave BO characters even though he's a bitch but i need more Adler content stat. <33

Let's get into it peeps. HEAR ME OUT.

Buckle up. Gonna be one hell of a ride folks 🤪

We'll start off with some random/background info.

Russ was born on February 12th 1937 so that would make him 53/54 in the Gulf War era. This actually isn't that old because if you think about it, Woods was about to turn 51 in 1981 during the Cold War campaign. What's a few more years?

We last saw Adler in action post-campaign in Warzone 1.0 cinematics but we've been kept in the dark about Adler's whereabouts post-1984 (after being brainwashed and killing Stitch LOL).

This meanie in a beanie wasn't forgotten about, oh no. He appears in the new cinematic intros on startup for both MWII (2022) and MWIII (2023). See below:

He was also featured twice in the 20 year anniversary video for Call of Duty whereas COD Ghosts didn't even get an appearance (ouch): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eL_w5HmxsPI

I personally believe Adler was a great addition to the Black Ops roster and is essentially the new Black Ops 'cover boy' now. Would be such a shame and a missed opportunity not to include a character like him in the upcoming COD. One who is morally grey, does whatever he deems necessary to get the job done - a bit like Cpt. Price in MW. Got the COD fans riled up about him brainwashing and pulling the trigger on Bell too - he's already got the spotlight in both a good and bad way.

Now, let's explore my main reasoning as to why I think Mr Shades 2.0 is most likely coming back in late 2024...

🎖️First up: Gulf War mission list 🔫

Here are some of the campaign missions that will be featured in Black Ops Gulf War. Obviously, this is subject to change, however, going off what we have, look closely...

Credit: @MWIIINTEL on Twitter/X

Safehouse guys...SAFEHOUSE. Takes you right back to Cold War, doesn't it? Ugh the potential.

🕵️ Next up: The campaign for COD 2024 will dive into the CIA's role/the Black Ops timeline 🕘

I took the following snippet from this official article.

From this, we know there will be a huge focus on the CIA and who's a CIA clandestine special officer? Mhm, you guessed it - Russell Adler.

Now, according to the events of BO2, it's evident which characters have the possibility of returning out of our original BO trio - Jason Hudson, Frank Woods and Alex Mason.

💫 Alex is presumed dead after Frank shot him so he's out the picture in '90/91 until 2025 when they canonically meet again.

🪵 Woods would be in his 60s during this time too so I'll let you decide whether that's too old for him to be in GW.

Edit: Woods got SPAS-12'd in the kneecaps on Dec 20th 1989 by Raul Menendez so uh...yeah

🧊 Hudson died on Dec 20th 1989 at the hands of Raul Menendez.

Feel free to check out this website (Call of Duty Wiki) for an outline of the events after CW to remind yourself. Here's a link to the Black Ops timeline from there.

➡️ Gulf War being a direct sequel to Cold War and what that could mean 💉

That brings me onto the rest of the safehouse crew. Since GW is a direct sequel to CW, it would make sense for some characters to carry over if possible:

We, as the player/Bell, get to choose whether Park or Lazar die (or both lovebirds) in 'End of the Line'. It's highly unlikely they'll return unless the devs make one decision canon maybe.

There could be a chance we see Sims again given his bond with Adler (Da Nang etc.), his age (late 40s in GW) and his status (alive).

That leaves the man himself, Russ. Everything from his age to the fact he's CIA and was the deuteragonist in COD 2020's campaign just makes sense for him to have at least a lil cameo or even a larger role, don't you think?

📱Finally: Hints from official posts 🔎

This post from Call of duty's official Instagram account kind of sealed the deal for me.

Oh lookie - they dropped syringe-lover's famous line in a zombies post. Why would COD just drop it so casually like that without a reason and years after CW came out? They could've said absolutely anything else but no, this was purposeful.

And that's all for this episode guys and gals!

Thank you for reading!! 🫂

Do what you will with all this information but I have concluded in my silly little brain that scarface is coming back.

How he's only in one game is beyond me. Won't get a character like him ever again. Seems like a cliché war dude at first glance but dig a little deeper into the details of the CW campaign, peel back the layers and get into his psychology and WOWZERS.

Am I delusional? Most definitely.

But the possibility he might be returning...that little bit of hope is enough for me and i won't shut up about it.

This will age horribly if he isn't in GW. Forgive me for feeding your delusions too in that case. Please?

What are your thoughts? Feel free to share them! 😊

------

EDIT: Y'ALL IT'S HAPPENING 😭😭

[whateverfiction]

M & F.

Hitting it up with the small questions and the big answers, once again typing about the Cold War of black ops.

You should know who M & F are. Mason and Woods.

“Did Mason and Woods know about Bell?”

You catch my drift?

Interested? Go read. Today marks day one of ‘The Cold War Files.’ A series of blogs about the lore of BOCW.

Allow me you to take you back to 1968 for us to begin. So in 1968, there was fracture jaw. However, in the season one cinematic, we do see Adler interrogating Stitch, the knife and how Stitch pretty much lost his eye.

You see, when it zooms onto the picture of rebirth island, you can see the words ‘Operation Rebrith’ and the year 1968 on the picture.

On the wiki, it states that Adler took Stitch’s eye in an act of revenge for Weaver. So it wasn’t just to send a message to his boss.

Adler knew Weaver.

Why is this important? Well, we have to take a look at Mason first to further look at Adler.

Every black ops OG out there knows Weaver from black ops 1.

And while I’ve never played much call of duty and I am not an OG, I know Weaver was the voice asking the questions to Mason. He helped Mason out of brain washing and so did Hudson.

So, intially I thought that Mason and Woods were possibly fed different info as to who ‘Bell’ was because everyone on the team we know, knew about the brainwashed ‘Bell.’

There’s a lot of different info you could tell them as Adler. Adler is as much of an enigma as he is smart.

Such a topic might’ve been risky to let Mason or Woods know. Adler knowing Weaver opens up the possibility of knowledge that Mason was brainwashed.

Now you might think, yeah they didn’t know.

But there’s one hole in that logic.

Mason and Woods seen ‘Bell’ at the airfield which is the second mission you play on the game when trying to get Arash.

They would’ve recognised the masked face joining the team. That is, assuming ‘Bell’ still wore the mask upon joining.

Even if Bell was still wearing the mask and ended up ‘co-operative’ it still wouldn’t work and here’s why.

Adler talks to you as if he knows you. But it feels ‘distanced.’ A result of not letting your guard down.

So, I reckon ‘Bell’ might not of been wearing the mask since joining the team.

The whole Vietnam thing wouldn’t work as well if they recognised you from the airfield because how would that have worked, you wouldn’t be a ‘friend’ as such. So then they’d be keeping an eye too.

Everyone in the safehouse is wary of you throughout the whole game. The only people that seem not so suspicious of you is Woods and Mason if you watch or read all the dialogue. It’s not the same atmosphere. Woods after a moment of silence in one of the dialogues in the safehouse, chuckles with Mason and says that he’s just joking around. It’s like a ‘shoulda seen your face’ kind of thing. People don’t tend to poke fun so easily when things are tense and high alert. It’s a breath of fresh air when everyone else seems serious and wary of you. Something just feels different.

I wonder why Adler would’ve let you go with Woods alone that one mission called “red light, green light.” Woods was never going to ask anything if he did or didn’t know.

There’s many ways to go about this.

But both possibilities of them knowing or not knowing at all are high.

They don’t seem wary of you.

But if they didn’t know, would they have asked about the ‘live one’ from the airfield to see if there’s any info from them. Alder couldn’t say anything to suggest disposal of the first key crucial piece of evidence they’d found; being you. It wouldn’t sit right if the man who knew the most about Perseus just discarded the first real lead they got just like that.

Adler is a man on a mission, someone who does whatever it takes. He’d probably say that nothing is coming out of them. Someway somehow though, wouldn’t the question be raised again later?

Well by ‘Bell’ joining the team, there is new *stronger* lead. There’s no use for the previous one who gives nothing, is there? Bigger leads provide more. ‘Bell’ provides most because they have more personal ties to Perseus than Alder does.

Those months of ‘Bell’ and their mind being used as a tool gradually builds the brain of ‘Bell’ to trust Adler subconsciously. The subconscious is manipulated into feeling safe so they’ll actually give the info. It’s why the mission for Fracture Jaw is easy to give to Adler compared to when you’re out of the brainwashing and giving the whereabouts of Perseus. Your mind is now feeling something is wrong and is trying to fight it. It’s more evident if you choose not to listen, especially when the red doors start slamming down in front of you. You’re trying to ignore it but eventually you can no longer fight it, you see the answer of where Perseus is and then you get to tell the truth or lie. It’s like ‘Bell’ doesn’t want to know they answer so they cannot give it. But that’ll be explored more in another post.

But do Mason and Woods know that the masked person from the airfield and ‘Bell’ are the same person or the same lead?

It’s much too hard to truly put a finger on it. It’s highly possible that they did know. But they did know you were Russian or working for Perseus possibly. In the bad ending of the game, Woods will say “It’s him/her/them! They fuckin’ lied to us!”

They knew you’d told Adler where Perseus would be.

That doesn’t mean they knew you were brainwashed though, it could mean they were given a different story.

Adler asking “is this true, Bell”, says to me that everyone in the team knew you were working for Perseus initially before helping them. Had he told Woods and Mason everything and just left out the brainwashing is the most likely story. So it’s evident that even if he once knew you, you’d long been gone. That version of the story is the one Mason and Woods would’ve had if they didn’t know about the brainwashing.

Let’s narrow it down.

Woods and Mason simply knew and didn’t bat an eye because you weren’t one of their ‘own.’

Or……

Woods and Mason didn’t know because Adler left it out because he knew Mason was once brainwashed and it wouldn’t have been ideal to know that his own people were possibly no better than Russians. Mason was through hell, that we know. It wouldn’t have been a reassuring topic if he needed Mason’s mentality in good shape instead of possibly being reminded of the experience he’d been through.

Woods and Mason were the heavy hitters of the team and a duo. Them together is a combo.

So did they know?

It’s up to you.

[s3ibro]

➢ capitano brainrots !

// hi welcome to my brain dump i wrote this at 12:49 am

big man. prolly something around 213 cm / 7 ft? makes him very scary to stand face to face with. the mask doesnt help, it makes him feel distant and inhuman. although, there is an allure to it as well, a mystery you are desperate to get to the bottom of, an unbreakable attraction.

capitano has a habit of watching you from afar, grateful that his mask hides the truth of his gaze. he’s quite sure you would run, full of fear and regret, if you had even the slightest idea of how he truly feels for you. is it hatred? is it carnal desire? something else entirely? what is it that draws him to you? he despises that you are a distraction from his duty as a harbinger, he cannot remember the last time he was touched beyond a battlefield, he sees you smile and he feels that this could quickly become a problem. love has never been in the cards for the harbingers </3

When you’re constantly on the warpath, what you need to stay sane is stability, and that’s what he would look for in a partner. he would like the way you always ask how his day has been, how easily you settle into routine with him, how even so far from schneznaya, he can still a home with you around.

i feel like capitano’s love language would be physical closeness, not necessarily touch, but intimate closeness nonetheless. sitting on a sofa next to him, each of you busy with different things, but still together, silent but showing each other love through the simple of act of being together. or when hes in council and you speak up. one of his advisors is quick to shut you down but capitano is there behind you, strong and cold and comforting. the advisor doesnt try it again.

imagine his hands. large and calloused from decades or perhaps centuries of war, forever scarred from close calls and duels with fearsome enemies. imagine how stunned, how flustered, even, he’d be if you showed those hands affection; if you kissed them and held them and made sure that if the man they belong to ever fell in battle, they’d know love before that moment.

how would he feel if he were forced to betray you for the fatui? what comes first, his loyalty or his lover? in the end, i think he’d chose the fatui. centuries of loyalty weighed against a few more short decades with you,,, he tries to tell himself he’s seeing the bigger picture.

imagine capitano falling in love with you at first sight during a raid on a natlan village. you, so pretty with tears running down your face, weeping as everything you’ve ever known burns. he takes a brief moment to dismount his warhorse, stares down at you in utter silence. you wait for him to swing his blade and put you out of your misery; instead, he grabs you round the waist and hauls you onto his horse, mounts behind you, and as the town burns and the wind lashes your cheeks, youre left in utter shock with no choice but to hold onto him for dear life kinda wanna write this into a full fic but I have so many wips already dhsosoheks

[mutantthedark]

Call Of Duty Modern Warframe II - Howling and Hollow

Chapter 1: Interrogation

So much for the meeting with Shadow Company, Sigma felt weird there are only men here. Although she didn't mind and wants the mission to get done.

Weirdly enough, one guy stared at her with confused look, yet shocked, looked like he knew her from somewhere... but he decided to play cool.

Two SAS operators and Los Vaqueros, Alejandro and Rudy did some damage looking for Hassan while Sigma had to help with air support. She was lucky to know Spanish.

After Hassan's capture, Soap's and Sigma's blue eyes met, caught right into sight... He can already tell he never saw a female pilot before. And she couldn't stand Graves talking nonsense, and some of the Shadow mercs are really fond of her... When she met Ghost, her blood ran cold seeing him in skull mask, strong, huge man would beat the shit out of anyone.

From affar before the flight with the Shadows while she met Graves, one of the Shadows said from afar: "Who is this girl? She’s cute and pretty." 

...

Pretended she didn't heard anything.

…

The sky is dark, it's night. The stars can't be seen, a calm peace, only crickets chirping in the field. A faith of howl calling by coyotes in the darkness, then it went silent.

Multiple truck's doors closed as the men jumped out. Soap dragged Hassan out of the vehicle and walks to the field.

"On your knees." Soap shoved Hassan on the ground, removing the black cloth bag off his head.

Graves is working on a signal in front of the green crate while crouching down.

"Ya'll got a clear picture?" Graves asked.

General, adjusting his seat to get comfortable. "Crystal."

"All set." Laswell replied, exhaling the smoke from her lips while smoking a cigarette.

"Alright, we are live, folks." Graves stands up, Hassan watches him approach.

"Do you speak Arabic?" He asks.

“No.” Graves replied, shaking his head.

“Farsi?”

“No.” He replied again, standing in front of him.

Sigma watches them as she stands beside Simon, remaining silent. If Hassan is going to ask her something, he better watch his tongue.

Hassan looks at Sigma, he smirks a little bit. “A woman in war... Who’s holding a weapon.” He starts, “I’m surprised you’re fighting for your country and battles without blood in your hands.”

“Women or men, doesn’t matter. If a man can be one, so do women. So English, you retard.” She replied with harsh voice down her throat.

Hassan nods his head a little bit, turning his attention to Graves. “Of course, then I’ll speak your bastardized medieval English because you are all uneducated street dogs.”

“Ahh, see… We’re getting off to a bad start here, Hassan.” Graves gets annoyed quickly, looking on the ground, tapping his foot.

“You are talking to a Quds Force Officer.” Hassan states proudly. All Sigma could just watch and shake her head.

“You’re the commander of a foreign terror organization,” Graves notes, not willing to put any stupid formalities.

“I can say the same thing to you.”

“What’s your target, ‘Major’?” Graves asks, his voice turning into a sarcastic one.

“What was your target when they sent missiles to my land?”

Graves shrugs a bit. “Oh, wild guess… To nails your ass.”

“So insolent and foul-mouthed. You will learn to respect me when your nation sees fire.”

“You will respect an anchor who will sink you in the bottom of the ocean.” Sigma glares at Hassan, crossing her arms. Hassan ignores her, Graves steps closer to him with anger and impatience in his eyes.

“You are in bed with the cartel, Hassan. If you dissapeared, no one would know where to look for a fuckin’ stain.” Graves said as he shakes his head.

“I have no doubt you’ll take pleasure in torturing me.” Hassan replied with a smirk.

Oh, Sigma would definitely torture him, if Graves would let her. Soap starts to speak out-

“Who’d you get American missiles from?”

“I don’t care who they’re from, I wanna know where they’re going.” Shepherd interrupted the conversation.

Coyotes howled in the endless darkness of the shadows, making the others to turn attention. Graves looks around, letting out a low whistle, his hand clutching his tactical vest.

“Take a look around Hassan. Now, you can either become part of the food chain,” Graves lowers himself in front of Hassan. “Or you can start talking.”

“I’m a hostage here,” Hassan states. “This is illegal.”

“You’re a prisoner of war.” Alejandro replied, tilting his head while his hand is squeezing Hassan’s shoulder.

“Iran is not at war with Mexico. I’ve broken no lawns. These men, one useless slut, and their commanders are the law breakers.” Hassan looks at Sigma and Ghost who are they stand beside the vehicle.

Her eye twitches after she heard he called her slut, slowly, her hand is curled into fist.

“You and your beloved General Ghorbrani broke every-“

“Do not speak his name!” Hassan shouted at Soap, cutting him off. He’s forcibly held by Alejandro.

“You executed him, and you will pay for your crimes! Only God can help you now!” He rolls his tongue at Graves angrily.

“I want this bastard in permanent custody or looking up at the goddamn grass!” Shepherd snarled his strict demand through the broadcast.

“General,” Laswell quickly intervened, “Killing Hassan is an act of war, keeping him here is illegal. Right now, he is too hot to hold.”

Shepherd sighs, adjusting his seat. “Tell me you’re getting something actionable, Laswell.”

“Working on it, stand by.”

Graves grabs the laptop and places it on the vehicle’s hood. “Actual, let me finish this.” he loses patience for a second.

“There is nothing I’d like more,” Shepherd agreed with the Commander, “But Laswell's right. Without proof we need to turn him loose. See where he leads us.”

Sigma’s eyes widens after hearing this. Releasing him?! Nonsense! She would’ve asked the questions about the missiles, not Graves. So much for General saying this, making the wrong decisions.

“What?! You can do that!” She joins Graves beside him.

“She’s right! He’s right there, you can’t be serious!” Soap joins along, looking at the screen.

“I’m afraid I am, you both.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Sigma hits the vehicle’s hood and starts to pace out, hands on her hips.

Ghost is holding Hassan’s phone with his right hand, looking at it while standing in place. “Did we get anything from his phone?”

“Affirmative, we got a hit.” Laswell concluded, but not much information required.

“Good. Now, take him back and let him go.” Shepherd confirms.Hassan is watching them, with a smile on his face. Alejandro shoved a black bag back on Hassan’s head, hiding his smile.

“Up, asshole. Come on.” Alejandro grunt in Spanish, raising Hassan back on his feet, dragging him to the vehicle. Ghost shoves Hassan’s phone in his pocket, walking past him.

Soap looks at the laptop and closes it, letting it a grunted sigh. Sigma walks to Graves, clearly not proud.

“That was completely stupid.”

“Call stupid to General who made the choice, but not me.”

“He’ll cause more damage with those missiles, we may be not find who the target is! And we’re just taking him like that?!”

“Sigma…” Graves sighs. “We need to know. I wanted to finish that guy, you wanted to right? Kickass name. We’ll find the missiles and it’s going to be over.”

“Unbelievable…” Sigma shakes her head and walks to the vehicle, avoiding the argument with him. Soap watched it from afar and follows her, gun in his hand.

So much coming to Mexico with Air Support and work with the Shadows, SAS operators and Los Vaqueros. She’s not done yet. She never had blood on her hands in battlefield. Her blood boils by General’s choice, she’s careful with people who can trust the most.

And been in Air Force for 4 years, finally fighting on the ground with heavy loads on her shoulders...

...

Yippeeee, I might draw some cutscenes whanever I can!

[queenofsimpsblog]

too much - shuri x reader

A/N: AAAAH MY FIRST ACTUAL STORY. have no idea what i was doing, but lemme know if you like this and want more!! maybe a part 2 coming up depending on how good this goes

it was a cold evening in wakanda. it shouldn’t have been, but it was. today was your 4 year anniversary with the love of your life, shuri udaku. you guys agreed to do something simple. well, more like you decided. shuri’s presence in your life has so far been pretty non existent.

a month had passed since the great war between wakanda and talokan. a month since the alliance was formed. wakanda had not heard from namor or anybody from talokan for that matter, so it was safe to say that the matter had dissolved. but the stress of it all came crumbling down on shuri, and caused her to work her soul away at her lab.

you’ve known shuri since you were 18, and you knew that shuri never really knew how to process grief, or any other strong emotion. so she did what she knew best. she worked. she designed. she innovated. and yes, it benefited wakanda greatly but you could see shuri’s grief break her bit by bit. and it hurt you to see her that way.

shuri had begun to forget things you told her. began to ignore your presence. and you let it slide because you knew she was suffering. but today she took it too far.

this day was special for your relationship, and you spent all day working to make this day memorable for her. because honestly shuri needed to be loved. and you wanted to give that to her. you prepared her favourite foods, wore her favourite dress and even made a gift for her. it was a scrapbook with all the best pictures of you and important highlights of your relationship compiled into one masterpiece. it didn’t cost a lot in terms of money, but it was made with a lot of love.

you told her to be back at your shared quarters by 7:00pm. it was now 9:30pm. you got too hungry and ate your food all by yourself, not wanting to wait for her anymore. by 10:00pm, the tears started taking over. you sat at the table and cried your eyes out at the fact that your girlfriend forgot such an important day.

rage took over and you got up, brushing your black dress as you made your way to the lab. you didn’t even need to track her kimoyo beads. you knew that’s where she would be.

once you got there, you took the elevator down. the dora milaje on duty looked at you and you shot them a small smile. you scowled inwards realising how crazy you would have looked. your hair was let loose from the bun you made before. your mascara was smudged. your eyes were red. your cheeks were tear stained. as your childhood best friend lana would say, girl bye you look like a mess.

ignoring the voice in your head that told you this was a bad idea, you strode up to the lab where you saw shuri and a few other scientists working.

“could you all please leave? i need a moment alone with the princess.” you spoke. the scientists looked at you for a moment before following your instructions. shuri looked at you, confused.

“y/n what is the meaning of this? we were doing important work. call them back now.”

“no.” you insisted, “i need to talk to you.”

she sighed, obviously frustrated. “about what?!”

“about how you bailed on me on our anniversary.”

“what are you talking about? todays not our anniversary.”

“uh, yeah, it is. look at the calendar. it’s december 18th.”

“look i don’t have time for this, i’m working. can we please do this tomorrow?”

you scoffed in disbelief. so first she ditched you on your anniversary. then refused to admit her mistake. and now she wants you to leave?!

“no! we can’t! because we have to talk about your constant absence in my life! goddamnit shuri i know you’re in pain, but spending every hour of the day in this god forsaken lab isn’t gonna help you. you have to confront your grief. please, sthandwa, i cant bear to see you like this. let me help you. let me in.” you begged, tears streaming down your face, ruining what was left of your makeup.

“don’t be ridiculous, y/n. i’m fine. now leave.”

“listen to yourself! you’ve never thrown me out of your lab before. you’ve changed.”

“yeah well grief changes people. suck it up.” she spoke bitterly before turning her back to you, tapping furiously at some gadget.

you had enough. you strode up to her and attempted to rip the gadget out of her hands but in the midst of all that, the gadget broke into two and tell down.

“for bast’s sake!” shuri yelled, bending down to pick up the pieces. realisation struck you. what have i done?

what happened next was in the blink of an eye. shuri pushed you, causing you to fall against another table, something sharp cutting into your arm.

“how many times have i told you not to disturb me when i’m busy?! that project took ages to develop, and you broke it in seconds!! god, why am i even with someone as stupid as you?!”

the cut hurt, but shuri’s words hurt more.

“why are you still staring at me?! LEAVE FOR FUCKS SAKE!” she yelled and threw another gadget at the wall, which broke again. the glass cut your calf, but you were too terrified to notice. gathering all your strength, you ran back to the palace.

ayo was doing rounds and saw your limping figure. the next thing she noticed was the blood dripping down your arm, and the glass shard in your calf.

“y/n! are you okay?! who did this?! what happened?!” she spoke, rushing up to you.

“ayo it’s fine, just a little accident,” you tried to joke, but it clearly wasn’t working.

“we need to get you to the infirmary.”

you meant to say something, but the pain and the blood loss eventually became too much. your body lunched forward into ayo’s arms. your vision soon became black as the last thing you heard was ayo’s screams for help.

*********

the bright lights of the infirmary woke you up. you looked at your bandaged arm and calf, and saw ayo furiously tapping her kimoyo beads.

“ayo?” you croaked out.

“y/n! thank god, you’ve been out for the past 40 minutes. are you feeling any better?”

the pain still existed, but it wasn’t too bad. the pain in your heart, however, was at an all time high. ayo asked you how you got such severe injuries in the first place, and you told her the entire story.

her eyes widened as she gasped. “did the princess really say all those things to you?”

you only nodded in response.

“i never thought shuri would say something like that. but don’t fret, it’s just the anger talking. she didn’t mean any of it.”

but that got you thinking. maybe you should give shuri some space. clearly, she needs time to reevaluate herself. and this relationship.

and that’s when you decided to do something pretty risky. “ayo, i need you to help me do something. no questions asked.”

“of course, y/n. what do you need?”

“i need you to get me to my room.”

ayo’s shoulders slumped at the pretty basic request. you chuckled in response. she expected something more serious. but nevertheless, she listened to you and helped you walk there.

“do you need anything else?”

“no thank you, i’m fine. i’ll call you if i need any help.” you hugged ayo and ushered her away, letting her get back to her patrolling. going into your room, you pulled out a duffel bag and started throwing your belongings inside. clothes, hair products, shoes, everything.

shuri needed space. and you were more than willing to give that to her.

feeling satisfied with the stuff you packed, you grabbed the bag and paused for a second, looking at the room. the romantic setup you prepared lay ruined. the candles you lit were barely alive. the petals were crumpled. the dinner was halfway eaten. and the present lay rapped on the armchair near the window.

a part of you wanted to leave with no explanation. but you were far too kind for that. quickly scribbling down a note, you left it on the present and left the room.

i have no idea what i’m doing, but i know i cant stay here.

you made your way to the flight dock, and walked to the faraway end where your favourite jet lay. well, this is happening.

meanwhile, shuri was still in her lab. after she managed to fix up the broken gadgets. she thought about the fight you had, about all the terrible things she said in anger. she knew she was wrong. she knew she had to make things right.

taking off her labcoat, she ran to your room, and was surprised to see what a mess it was.

shuri’s heart broke looking at the half eaten dinner, the petals, and the candles. you always did so much for shuri, and she just neglected you.

a shiny silver box and a yellow note stuck on it caught her attention. the note was slightly damp from your tears, but she pulled the note out and read it .

hi, shuri,

i’m really sorry about your gadget. i didn’t mean to break it. but i don’t regret what i tried to tell you. you’ve been working yourself to death. you haven’t been taking care of yourself, and you won’t let me take care of you either. and i’m done with me putting so much into this relationship when you clearly don’t care about me anymore.

we need a break. i’m leaving. please don’t try and find me. it’ll just make the pain worse.

y/n

shuri’s hand trembled as she dropped the letter. she had to find you. due to her enhanced hearing, she heard a loud sound from the flight dock, and ran to it as fast as she could.

there you were, throwing away your kimoyo beads as you boarded the plane. shuri noticed your bandaged arm and calf, which were stained with blood. a genius like her easily figured out that she was the reason for those injuries.

you felt someone staring at you and turned to lock eyes with your beloved. not having the heart to say anything, you turned away and quickly entered the jet, closing the door behind you as you started it, taking off in a matter of moments.

keying in your destination, you put the jet on autopilot as you opened your bag, taking out a fresh set of clothes and your sneakers. this moment didn’t call for your best dress and heels.

your heart ached. but you knew that this was shuri’s fault and that you didn’t do anything wrong. you had faith that you would recover from this pain. and that even if you and shuri don’t end up getting back together, things would work out just fine.

you opened one of the makeshift beds and lied down, attempting to get some rest. exhaustion took over as you closed your eyes, thinking about what lay next.

next stop: new york city.

OK NOW WHO WANTS A PART 2 TO THIS??

[acertainmoshke]

New and Improved Writeblr Intro

I didn't really know what I was doing the first time and my WIP priorities have changed, so here we go again.

Call me Moshke Palmoni (they/them). I spend as much time as I can writing, but that is not as much as it might be because there's also a lot of life going on right now. I also like to read, knit, collect vintage ephemera, and play with my cat. Most of my time currently is taken up with fixing up the 100-year-old house I just bought. It's lovely but it was not cared for in the last couple decades and the previous owners made some interesting decisions. I also visit libraries and museums as much as possible.

Active WIPs

(respond to this post to be added to or taken off any taglists!)

General taglist: @blind-the-winds

To Die Among the Stars

First draft about half done at ~50k words.

In the future, 20 people are sent into space on a second test of an FTL drive, aiming for a habitable planet. The first test was a disaster, so this time they’re more careful—the volunteers are only needed for data on how humans fare at faster than light speeds, so they are selected from prisons and “mental wellness centers” and areas where people would agree to a suicide mission for the promise of feeding their families. No one expects them to live, just to provide enough data to improve the next test. Told from 4 POVs: Pixel, a semiverbal black market modder; Ri, who has so many illicit mods embedded in his body he can no longer experience the world the way most people do; Zippy, a young disabled woman desperate to support her family; and Peppermint, a genetic experiment combining human and cat DNA raised in a lab with only a sentient android for company. Despite all expectations, the group bands together for survival.

Taglist: @hd-literature

A Blade of Ice

In the outlining stage.

Working title. Part of the Legends of Halara series, which follows 1,000 years of fantasy kingdom history. About 300 years into that history, Princen Aryel is born. Aryel is never good at going along with expectations but has a certain duty eso must follow to take care of eson kingdom. Aryel is one of three royal children and not expected to rule, but after eson youngest sibling dies relatively young Aryel has to take on the responsibilities of both leading the army in a generation-long war and leading the kingdom through a time of shortages and despair. Aryel often clashes with the noble advisors in ways eson sibling never did, and the balance between who Aryel is at war and who eso is at court is not an easy one. It certainly doesn't help that in a world of politically arranged marriages, Aryel always seems to be in love with the wrong person.

Worldbuilding Links for Halara: cultural genders are explained here (with pictures of clothing styles here) and non-human gender systems here. This is a basic post about their pantheon of deities and this is a post containing maps of all the local kingdoms.

Cold Iron

In the outlining stage.

Shakatra is 107 years old. They are also 33. They are a rare case of a Fae changeling surviving to adulthood without being killed or dying from iron exposure or the weak constitution common among Fae children chosen to be left. They survived long enough to gain magical strength not only beyond any human but beyond many of the more minor Fae. They used to use this to exert power over Wild Fae, to protect humanity, to exact revenge, or just for fun. Now, however, they are widowed and retired with two kids to take care of. Their brother Kris, also their best (only?) friend is equally happy to be done with that world. Neither of them are prepared for it to find them again. When there is a Fae threat against the entire world, Shakatra may be the only one with the power to stop it and enough love of humanity to bother. But things are not what they seem and questions of betrayal, priorities, and what they are willing to do to protect the life they've built are harder to fight than a direct battle, insidious like the creeping poison of iron.

Links: Character posts here and here.

Backburner WIPs

Time to Kill

Working title. Esther Dahan is part of one of the first teams ever sanctioned to use time travel technology. Against all historical odds, they aren’t cops or soldiers—they’re anthropologists. Her team specializes in Jewish history specifically, and as tough as it is to leave her young daughter behind for long stretches the team is like her family as they get to truly experience what life was once like, always careful not to change anything (the butterfly effect having been disproven, they must still not share too much information or come in contact with major figures). And yet, something is off. In more and more time periods, they find suspicious activity. But they can never quite get enough proof to convince anyone why this matters—why they should believe that these scientists found the first known rogue travelers. It’s not until trying to solve the mystery on their own leads to Esther’s life being torn apart that they’re taken seriously, and even then her team might be the only ones capable of finding out the truth and stopping something even worse.

A Tangled Knot of Gold

Also in the Legends of Halara series, about 200 years into the kingdom's history. Tlapil is the cousin of the heir to the throne, Soter, who is also the only person who treats eso like a person because eso is semi-verbal with unusual body language and interests. Tlapil's main useful skill seems to be mapmaking, but when the kingdom needs unusual solutions Tlapil's ready to help—along with eson only other friend, who happens to be a slime. Having proven esonself, eso holds a respectable position as advisor to eson cousin, but when tragedy threatens to tear apart the entire kingdom it might be up to Tlapil to find a way to hold it together.

Falling Petals

A story of imperfect love and family and undiagnosed disability across generations (they're all autistic before they would have been called that). Ira Katz was born in 1913, the only child of Russian Jewish immigrants. He was clever and charming, but there was always something off-putting about him. He didn't understand why blunt observations and mean jokes went unappreciated. He would give long and detailed lectures on his interests, which included photography, without regard to anyone else's level of interest. He spent his adult life working in the drugstore he inherited from his father and had 4 children with his wife, though he never knew how to connect, loving them from a distance.

Ira's second child, Daniel (born 1939), was also odd and isolated. He was gentle and generous but mocked for being sensitive, for his silly attempts at being serious and adult too soon. So he learned to channel his pain from tears to rage and disappear into comic books to forget about the world. He learned to script friendly conversations so no one could see his confusion or pain. He studied architecture because it was more manly than becoming a librarian, married a teacher, and had twin daughters. He refused to become his father--he never mocked his kids and he spent some time with them--but the pain and overwhelm and frustration would burst out of him in rages that terrified them.

One of Daniel's daughters, Shoshana (born 1961) was also odd. She was bright but seemed young for her age, clinging to toys her sister had long discarded. She had a bad habit of freezing when confused or scared, so she would stare blankly and just not answer people. She cried easily. She read constantly but failed out of college and ended up back with her parents and no chance of marrying or living alone. She convinced herself she was stupid.

And then Shoshana's sister had a daughter, Naomi (born 1987). Naomi was odd in a way Shoshana recognized, and she was determined not to project her own pain onto her niece but to use this chance to break the cycle of pain and give a child a chance to grow up loving herself and her differences.

[cantheywinthehungergames]

Samantha Maxis - Call of Duty Zombies. She’s apparently 12 years old before the Cold War time jump

Picture: https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/callofduty/images/5/52/Samantha_Maxis_Origins_BOII.png/revision/latest?cb=20131014164008

Name: Samantha Maxis

Age: 12 (pre-Cold War)

Restrictions: Can only use weapons supplied in the Hunger Games arena

[another-corpo-rat]

wip wednesday

tagged by @corpocyborg, ty!!! <3 tagging with no pressure!! @theviridianbunny, @wistereia, @wanderingaldecaldo & @luvwich tfw work has slaughtered most of my motivation to work on things, but i do have some wips in the pipeline, starting with the closest to done:

Pale Yellow

featuring @pozerjacket's darling boy Kauri, and Victoria in a not great mood. Titled after the woodkid song. there's just a few more paragraphs that need re-written before i comb through it again

It’s a familiar enough thing; Stunzer’s voice was always as bright as his mood when he was off-duty – and she was yet to be privy to him not in a good mood. He was one of the rare few who could claw genuine joy out of the shithole that was Night City, a skill she would perhaps envy were she a lesser woman born to parents selfish enough to bring a child into a life condemned to the gutters. But a lesser woman she was not and she’d have no need for it now, not with a one-way ticket booked for London. First-class of course, because she wouldn’t allow herself to suffer lesser.  She was in agony enough as his smile and tone grated against already raw nerves. “Stunzer.” She says, sharp and cold as if she was interrupting someone’s stupidity in a meeting— And really that didn’t seem far off. She did feel him utterly idiotic with that stupid smile and aggressively pleasant mood. Painfully genuine and foolish for it. But not entirely so, at her word the switch flips and his bright smile drops into something more presentable, practiced. Professional. Good. She did keep his contact details for reasons beyond warming her bed. “I have a job for you,” and she could do without her voice sounding rough to her own ears; the words rasping against her coarse throat, “no fixers, no middlemen. Meet me on the Ebunike in Northside if you’re interested, Maelstrom shouldn’t give you any trouble.” She cuts the call before he can speak and wonders why she didn’t just send a text.

That Unwanted Animal

and then there's the untitled very much in the planning stages smasher-getting-pegged fic thats still in the bullet-points format in my document atm. even the title is a placeholder from the amazing devil song

“Fuck you, Blondie.” “If that’s what you’d prefer.” There’s enough of a pause that he seems to be considering it, his jaw working as if he’s caught the safe-word between his teeth and is shaping it with his tongue. “Or,” she croons, with the practiced softness of a suit guiding someone towards the answer they want, “you get on your back instead. See how you feel then.” “And how the fuck will that help?” A click of her tongue, derisive. “You think I let the dolls look at me?” Another pause, another moment of consideration. It’s a bold-faced lie and he knows it, knows she’d sooner break their jaws for looking away rather than forcing their head into the pillows. But it’d hardly be the first time they accepted one another’s lie for their own sake, twisting and working with it just enough to iron out the kinks in their reasoning. Safely tossed away immediately after, to be brought up only when their bickering turns to arguments and a way to shake the other’s foundation. Her success is marked by another huff and the deep dip of the bed as he rolls to adjust his position, ungraciously kicking her in the turn. His smirk is too wide and the late ‘move’ too amused for it not to be purposeful. But her annoyance is short-lived, much shorter than she’d like but— anger is a difficult thing to hold onto as he gets comfortable, the air stolen from her lungs with the picture. [describe adam here. Be horny with it] Those thick legs frame her now as she settles between them, trailing a hand along his inner thigh and almost regretting having him on his hands and knees in the first place. Almost. If she didn’t suggest it for his sake; comfort was rarely a luxury offered in either of his lives, because what does an 8ft war machine need of goose-feather pillows and a gentle hand? Nothing, if he were to be asked, but he was extending a deeper trust than she expected, and so it was the least she could offer in return.

[nesiacha]

Fernand and Helene Iveton a couple in the Algerian revolution ( part II): the life and the loss of Henri Maillot

Picture of Henri Maillot author Fagnoni René

Advertissement: This text can be very hard as we see horrible anecdotes but unfortunately true (written) anecdotes that we wish never existed. So sensitive soul go your way.

In the first part, we discussed the couple Fernand and Hélène Iveton, their stories, and their convictions here the link first part (https://www.tumblr.com/nesiacha/753999134761058304/fernand-and-helene-iveton-a-couple-in-the-algerian?source=share) . Now, this couple is immersed in the Algerian revolution, which they fully support, and they are participating in this war of independence by supporting the independence fighters. Here, Fernand is about to experience one of his greatest losses: his lifelong friend Henri Maillot.

Henri Maillot was born in January 1928 and grew up in the outskirts of the Clos Salembier neighborhood, where Fernand, like him, was a communist activist with the Algerian Communist Party (PCA). He lived with his sisters and mother and earned an accounting degree in 1947. Henri Maillot decided to fully join the independence fighters after witnessing the repression in Constantine in 1955 (an episode I may discuss in another post). One of the most horrifying anecdotes that made Henri Maillot scream in rage: a soldier held an Algerian baby in his arms, took a gun, and killed him in cold blood.

In October 1955, he was recalled by the French army to Miliana as an aspirant in the 57th Algerian Riflemen Battalion (BTA), which later became the 504th Transport Battalion (BT). He decided to use this opportunity to take as many French weapons as possible for the Algerian insurgents. In early April 1956, he hijacked a truck loaded with arms and ammunition by threatening the driver and then chloroforming him. Several people emerged from the bushes, and the commando stole 74 revolvers, 10 automatic pistols, 121 submachine guns, and 63 rifles, along with many cartridges.

Once the soldier woke up, he alerted the authorities, but the accomplices had already left for Algiers to mislead the authorities. I will quickly skim over the details, but the press condemned Henri Maillot's actions, with some falsely accusing him of being a traitor serving Moscow (in the next post, you will discover why France was eager to uncover any Algerian communists and make people believe they were working for Moscow, even though this was a blatant lie easily recognizable). The French Communist Party (PCF) clearly lacked solidarity with Henri Maillot (the PCA's line at that time was to join the FLN individually, while the PCF, as we will see, was extremely lukewarm on the matter, even abandoning some of the communists). L’Humanité (the PCF's newspaper) only published Henri Maillot's letter ten days later. Here is Henri Maillot's letter justifying his actions and his commitment to the FLN:

"French writer Jules Roy, an air force colonel, wrote a few months ago: 'If I were a Muslim, I would side with the fellagas.' I am not a Muslim, but I am an Algerian of European origin. I consider Algeria as my homeland. I believe I owe it the same duties as all its sons. When the Algerian people rose to liberate their national soil from colonial oppression, my place was alongside those who engaged in the liberating fight. The colonial press cries treason, while it publishes and embraces the separatist calls of Boyer-Bance. It also cried treason when, under Vichy, French officers joined the resistance while it served Hitler and fascism. In truth, the traitors to France are those who, to serve their selfish interests, distort the true face of France and its people with generous, revolutionary, and anti-colonialist traditions in the eyes of Algerians. Moreover, all progressive people in France and the world recognize the legitimacy and righteousness of our national demands. The Algerian people, long scorned and humiliated, have resolutely taken their place in the great historical movement of colonial peoples' liberation sweeping across Africa and Asia. Their victory is certain. And it is not, as the wealthy of this country would have you believe, a racial fight but a struggle of the oppressed against their oppressors and their lackeys, regardless of race. It is not a movement against France and the French or against workers of European or Jewish origin. They have their place in this country. We do not confuse them with the oppressors of our people. By delivering weapons to Algerian fighters, which they need for the liberating struggle, weapons that will be used exclusively against military and police forces and collaborators, I am aware of serving the interests of my country and my people, including those of European workers momentarily deceived."

Negotiations then began between the PCA (Bachir Hadj-Ali and Sadek Hadjerès) and the FLN, represented by one of the greatest heroes of the Algerian revolution, Abane Ramdane, and another figure, Benyoussef Ben Khedda. According to various sources (so I might be wrong), the final result was what I mentioned in the post about the first part between Fernand and Hélène Iveton, although in reality, the negotiations were more complex and were accelerated by the disbanding of the Red Maquis, which allowed the FLN not to recognize the PCA but rather to permit its members to join the FLN individually.

On May 22, 1956, Henri Maillot was sentenced to death in absentia by the Algiers military tribunal (which is a great parody of justice, as you will discover in the next post; some aspects are no less than those of a totalitarian state, I assure you).

He commanded a group of eight maquisards from the "Red Maquis." Their only notable action was the execution on June 3, 1956, of four collaborators of the French army, shooting them after verifying their identities. Unfortunately for them, the noose tightened. The next day, they were attacked by French troops. Maurice Laban (a communist, former WWII resistance fighter, and lieutenant of the International Brigades during the Spanish Civil War), Belkacem Hannoun, Djillali Moussaoui, and Hammi lost their lives. Abdelkader Zelmat, a supplier with a mule for the maquis, had been captured the day before and coldly killed. Mohamed Boualem and Hamid Gherab managed to escape.

Henri Maillot was captured and met the same fate as Abdelkader Zelmat but not before being handed over by the gendarmes and tortured for two hours. Subsequently, the gendarme told him he could leave. Henri Maillot knew the gendarme was lying and intended to shoot him as soon as he turned his back. That is why he walked away backward, shouting "Long live the Algerian Communist Party," and was shot by one of the gendarmes. His body was tied to the back of the armored vehicle and dragged for 15 kilometers.

When Fernand Iveton learned of Henri Maillot's death, he cried for a long time, and Hélène could do nothing to help him in his sorrow. Fernand Iveton wanted to take more action following his friend's death. Hélène, as always, understood and supported him as she understand and supported this struggle.

However, for Jean Claude's safety, the couple sent him back to France to be with his grandmother, as the danger was increasing, and they wanted to protect Jean Claude as much as possible. This premonition proved accurate given what would happen, but it would be the last time Fernand and Jean Claude saw each other.

There is an evident rift between the Algerian and French Communist Parties that will further widen in the third part.

P.S.: I had considered briefly mentioning Henri Maillot in this post and doing a separate post about him, but I realized there was too much to say (which doesn’t mean I won't write other posts for a more comprehensive mini-biography and about his entourage). Sorry, it will end up being in four parts.

[koolkat9]

Royal Red Bros Week 2023: Day 2 and 3

@royalredbrosweek

Prompts: Growing Up || Remembrance/Nostalgia and Celebration || Canada Day

Rating: T

Relationship: England + Canada (+ a little bit of Scotland)

Word Count: 3685

Read on AO3

Time Ticks Away

His whole body felt like it was on fire despite the cold February air even nipping through his bandages. But he had a duty to meet his new charge.

Cautiously he approached the little log cabin in the middle of the woods. Francis had said this was the place the representation formerly known as New France liked to call home. With a shiver, Arthur approached the door and knocked.

There was no answer. Everything was still. Snow untouched save for a few paw prints, decorating the trees in gobs. It would be rather peaceful, a perfect winter wonderland, if it wasn’t so cold and he wasn’t so sore from the long war he had just come out of.

But that image was further shattered by a rustling from the bushes. Arthur snapped his attention towards it. Surely it was just a woodland creature, but after years of war, sudden noises called for concern. Better to be safe than sorry.

He stood straighter and eyed the bush. “Come on out, whatever you are. I know you’re there.”

There was more rustling, then a blond nest of curls popped out, followed by a whole boy no older than five. His deep blue eyes, like two ice caverns, stared at Arthur wide and unblinking. His hair was in tatters as were his clothes, and Arthur didn’t want to think too deeply about how he ended up like this, especially in winter.

Arthur approached the boy slowly so as not to spook him and crouched down to be at his level. “Hello there lad,” Arthur greeted, extending a hand to the boy, “I am England…er…Angleterre. Je suis sûr que vous avez entendu parler de moi. Quel est votre nom?”

The boy blinked, staring at Arthur’s hand as if it was foreign. Had Francis not taught this boy manners?

Finally, New France placed his hand in Arthur. “Matthieu,” he whispered, barely loud enough for Arthur to hear.

“Right then.”

Arthur looked over the boy…Matthieu. Though it was a mess, there was no doubt that hair was originally Francis's doing. Arthur continued his scan, wondering if those clothes could be saved at all. But what caught his attention most was the scrapes on the boy’s knees and palms.

“Let’s get you in the tub and then patch up those scrapes.”

Matthew tilted his head.

“Oh…er…” Arthur fumbled, “Que diriez-vous d’un bain? Et alors nous pouvons nous occuper de ces éraflures.”

Matthieu looked over Arthur, almost like a curious animal would. It was rather endearing if Arthur was being honest and reminded him of himself when he was a child.

Still holding Arthur’s hand, Matthieu guided him inside.

- - -

Matthieu–or Matthew as Arthur started to call him–never asked for anything. At first, Arthur had figured that was because the two of them were practically strangers that were suddenly parent and child. No play time, no stories, no sweets. But when he caught Matthew trying to prepare his own meal, Arthur realized this was more than just an issue of change.

Though he wasn’t sure how or if he should address the underlying problem, he had at least ensured that Matthew didn’t attempt to cook any time soon. That was the other thing about Matthew, you only needed to tell him something once, and he would listen. But Arthur never liked the horror in the boy’s eyes whenever this happened.

Arthur exited his office. He might have finally finished his paperwork, but now he had an oncoming headache. Why did his bosses have to print so small?

He entered the living room and found Matthew sitting on the sofa, nose in one of his favourite picture books, studying the images on the page. Arthur couldn’t help but smile. That boy was following in his footsteps as a bookworm, it seemed.

“Would you like me to read to you?” Arthur asked, taking a seat next to Matthew.

Matthew visibly jumped when Arthur announced himself. “I-I…um…don’t...want to be a bother…”

“Come now poppet. You could never be a bother. Especially not like this.” He took the book from Matthew. “Reading is one of my favourite activities after all, and it’s even more fun when I can share a story with someone.”

Matthew nibbled his lip, wide eyes falling to his swinging feet. “Y-You sure?”

“Mhm. Now get comfy.” Arthur wrapped an arm around Matthew’s shoulder and pulled him against his side. Matthew tensed, but as the story began, each word seemed to get him to relax.  

By the end, Matthew was almost sound asleep, cheek resting lazily over Arthur’s heart. Unable to bring himself to move him, Arthur spent the rest of his afternoon there.

- - -

He had been staring out the window all afternoon as if he was looking for someone. He was if what Alastair had said was true.

Arthur took a seat next to him, ignoring the burning hot sensation in his chest. “Everything alright?” Arthur asked, slow and cautious.

“Yes,” came the curt reply.

“Matthew,” Arthur warned, “Don’t lie to me.”

Matthew flinched.

“I overheard Uncle Allie talking with Uncle Dylan…” Arthur went on.

Matthew curled into himself, wrapping his arms around his torso and pulling his knees up. “I-I’m sorry…I-I-I…I’m trying not to miss him b-because I’m happy with you and Uncle Allie, b-but I just…I-I don’t…”

Arthur took a deep breath. “I get it,” he sighed, “I would rather not discuss Francis, but I’ll make an exception, this once. I understand being forcefully separated from someone you called family. I was around your age when I was forced away from my brothers. And I know how much it can hurt.”

“I’m angry…” Matthew whispered, staring daggers into his knees, “Why didn’t he fight harder for me? Why didn’t he warn me what was going to happen? Why is he ignoring my existence? All those letters Uncle Allie brought him.”

Arthur was furious that Alastair had gone against his order to keep Francis out of their lives, but when he caught Matthew fingering away tears, that discussion could wait for another day.

“But I still miss him,” Matthew whimpered, “He may have not understood me like you and Uncle Allie, but he still…” He couldn’t finish his sentence before he burst into sobs.

Arthur chewed the inside of his cheek, torturing himself by watching his child shake and cry. Before pride could interfere like it always seemed to do, he pulled Matthew against him and held him tightly. “It’ll be okay. Maybe not now. But I promise you, someday. We’ll make it work out.”

Matthew tensed in the embrace and, for a moment, struggled as if he was a trapped rabbit. Arthur kept his hold, carding a hand through the boy’s hair until he finally settled.

- - -

“And here I actually thought you might be changing,” Alastair spat, “But I should have known that was naive of me.”

“Yes, it was,” Arthur replied sharply as he folded his clothes into his suitcase, “We’re nations, and you know the duties that come with it.”

Alastair scoffed. “And yet you could fuck off to the sea during the mid-1600s.”

Arthur bristled. He took a breath, wanting to avoid this argument that they kept coming to time and time again.

“Alfred is already hurting, and you know it," Alastair kept pushing, "Look how big he’s grown in just a few decades. And how much of that time were you there for it.”

“We will not have this discussion now.”

Alastair laughed bitterly. Arthur’s back may have been turned from his brother, but he could feel the acidic eyes melting into him. “Oh, you’re just like Francis,” Alastair growled, "‘Business first, child second.' And that’s a generous depiction.”

Arthur whirled around, nostrils flared. “Don’t you  dare  ever compare me to that frog,” he whispered, poison dripping in his words, “I love those boys for more than just their land, and you know it.”

“Then act like it. Be a parent. Be  there for them . You’re missing the most important experiences of their lives.”

“I’ve told you I–”

“And I’ve told you, you can. I’ve been doing it because I can’t let Matthew feel abandoned again. He’s already breaking his back to impress you because he doesn’t want to be left behind again. Don’t you see it?”

He did. He saw it from the very beginning. The way Matthew never asked for things and how it was like pulling teeth just to convince the boy he could ask for stories, to play, and other things children asked for. How he would get lost staring out the window. How he never stepped out of line, and if he did, it crippled him for days after.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Arthur closed his suitcase. He brushed past his brother only to freeze when he spotted a blur of blond curls rushing away.

- - -

Matthew watched as droplets dripped from the icicles hanging from the roof of the little cabin. Spring had sprung, as they said, chasing away the last of his cold. After a winter of being cooped up inside and bedridden for most of it, Arthur knew he had to get that boy out.

He had to head into town for some errands giving him ample opportunity to bring Matthew.

So the two hopped in an open carriage and set off on their way. Matthew was even mellower than usual, Arthur couldn’t blame him, his body was still exhausted, and after all that coughing surely his throat was still recovering. At least he seemed to be enjoying the fresh air given his tired smile.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Arthur said, “Want to learn how to drive?”

Matthew fiddled with his sleeve. “A-Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Of course it is. It’s very important for getting around these days. Now we’ll start with stopping and starting.”

Arthur explained the process and demonstrated what to do. Matthew, despite how nervous he looked, seemed to hold onto every word. In the end, those worries were for naught as Matthew flicked and pulled the reins like a pro.

Next was turning. Once more, Arthur walked him through it and showed him what to do. But this time, Matthew jerks the reins a bit too sharply and ends up spooking the horse.

“Hey, lad. Just–” But all words were lost on the panicking Matthew, who was now desperately pulling back on the reins trying to get the horse to stop, but only making it more anxious.

Arthur snatched the reins from Matthew and eventually got the horse to stop just before they ran into a tree. Arthur let out a quick sigh of relief, collapsing back into his seat.

With everything now calm, Matthew burst into tears.

“Now now lad,” Arthur gently chastised, “No need for tears. It was a simple mistake.”

“I-I’m sorry…”

“It’s alright. Everyone is safe.”

“But I could have–”

“Matthew, remember: we don’t dwell on what could have happened. It only makes us upset over something not worth it.”

Matthew nodded and rubbed his eyes.

Arthur handed him a handkerchief. “Here, it’s alright now. Let’s dry those tears.”

Matthew nodded again and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief.

Arthur watched the boy clean himself up and take a few deep breaths. The image stirred memories of when he was a young boy always running to Dylan in tears after the smallest inconveniences. But the world was quick to shove those feelings down into the deepest corners of Arthur’s being. Aggressively. Violently. This world was not built for those who wore their heart on their sleeve.

Arthur had considered doing something before Matthew had to learn that the hard way, but he never did. Not when Matthew looked at him with those crystal blue eyes. Arthur couldn’t break him even further.

“Can we continue on our way?” Arthur asked instead.

“Mhm.” Matthew kept a tight hold on the handkerchief, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore.

“Chin up poppet. Perhaps we can pick up some ingredients while in town, and we can bake together when we get home. Would you like that?”

Matthew peeked out from behind the handkerchief, eyes shining, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yes please.”

- - -

He could smell the blood. It was the only thing Arthur could use to tell where he was. His eyes were stuck shut, and he couldn’t tell if it was the exhaustion, the pain, the mud, or a mixture of the three. Not that it mattered. Not now.

It was still raining. Normally, Arthur would find it calming, but each drop was like a bullet on his inflamed skin. He deserved it.

“--d-–ad,” someone called. The voice was panicked, but still so gentle. It enwrapped Arthur like a warm blanket, slowing his mind. He was finally nodding off, but not before catching a glimpse of blue and blond.

“Alfred?” Arthur croaked.

“Dad? Dad, it’s me. It’s Matthew,” the blond boy cried, taking Arthur into his arms. “Don’t worry. I’m going to bring you home.

Everything after that was a blur. Days, perhaps even months passed. Some days everything hurt, other days he felt like he was floating. But each day, Matthew’s voice was there, low and steady despite the clear worry in his pitch.

When Arthur finally came to, enough to sit himself up, supported by shaky hands and the headboard of the bed, Matthew was the first thing he saw.

Matthew’s curls were longer than he had ever seen them, splayed on the edge of the bed like a tablecloth, covering Matthew’s face. It looked as though he hadn’t brushed that mane of his in days.

He looked far older than the thirteen-year-old he was.

Tentatively, Arthur reached out and brushed a few strands away, revealing Matthew’s long lashes blanketing his eyes. Always such a beautiful boy. His beautiful boy. The beautiful boy that stayed.

At the time, neither of them would realize it, but something changed in Arthur. When Arthur realized that Alfred was gone and Matthew had stayed. Cried over him. Cared for him. Nursed him back to health, Arthur knew deep down that he had to repay that boy in every way he could, starting with putting Matthew first.

- - -

Arthur had been summoned to London. Ever since Alfred’s revolution, he hadn’t been home, and his bosses were practically begging him to come back. Arthur scoffed at the letter. It wasn’t like they listened to him when he was there. They functioned just fine without him.

He planned on ignoring it, continuing to live in the small cabin with his two sons in the heart of the Canadian North (only leaving to bring Jack his land for the sake of his people). But in the end, Arthur's own people seemed to be tugging him back to London.

Jack had just been put to bed when Arthur joined Matthew in the study. Just as he suspected all those years ago, Matthew was a bookworm just like him, always having a nose in some sort of novel. He hated to bug him, but he wanted the oldest who still lived under his care to know what would be happening.

“I’ve been summoned to London,” Arthur said softly.

Matthew didn’t look up, but his shoulders tightened up to his ears. “I figured. I’ve seen the letters being dropped off.”

Arthur nodded. “I want you to come with me this time. Both of you.”

Matthew whipped his head up to Arthur. “What?”

“I’ve…um…realized some things a-and…I don’t want you two to be alone for so long. There is no telling how long they’ll keep me considering how long I’ve been gone.”

“B-But…When I would go to France I–”

Arthur ruffled Matthew’s hair. “You always worry too much lad. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack at this rate.” He smiled and took a seat beside his son. “I think you both are old and stable enough to withstand the journey. And if there is any issue, we’ll come right back here.”

“Yes but–”

“And Jack has been doing well here with us right? So he’ll be fine.”

“That’s true.”

“I won’t make you come if you don’t want to, but I will be taking Jack with me, and then we’ll be heading back to his land before we come back here. Will you be fine on your own for that long?”

Matthew sucked in his bottom lip. “I-I guess I’ll come.”

Arthur clapped him on the back. “Good. And don’t worry yourself. You know I would never let anything happen to you two.”

Matthew smiled slightly. “I know Dad.”

- - -

It was finally happening. The son who stayed was leaving the nest. Sort of.

Matthew had approached Arthur one night asking for more freedom. By now, he had to be physically 17 or 18 Arthur guessed, a good few inches taller than him, and the colony seemed to be finding its own footing. Arthur was not about to make the same mistake twice and agreed to bring it up to his Parliament.

After some lengthy discussions and political proceedings, it was agreed that Canada would become a self-governing dominion. Not fully independent just yet with a few last ties to the British Empire, but it seemed to be enough to please Matthew, and that’s what mattered.

Though Matthew had physically grown from that owlish little boy that barely said a word, some things never changed. Like the way, he twisted and tugged on the sleeve of his blazer.

Arthur gently patted the hand. “None of that lad,” he whispered, “You got to show them how capable you are.”

“But what if I’m not…” The words barely reached Arthur, and for a moment Matthew was staring at him with those large round ice caverns from the first day they met.

“Oh Matthew,” Arthur beamed, cupping the boy’s cheeks in his hand, “You are more than capable. It’s not going to be easy, and you have already seen things that have shown you that. But you’ve taken them in stride. You’re still here.”

Matthew nodded.

“And I’ll still be here. Not as England, but as Arthur Kirkland. Your father.”

Matthew smiled and pulled Arthur into a tight hug. “Thank you.”

Arthur was shocked for a moment before patting Matthew’s back affectionately. Despite how big he had grown, there still seemed to be more growing to do.

- - -

Arthur peeked over the trench. It was dark. He’d be lucky if he saw anyone–friend or foe–coming across that field of bodies and shells. It was probably risky--no telling if those Germans would shoot bullet over just to keep him and his men on his toes. But he had to make sure Matthew returned safely.

In the silence of the night, Arthur heard the sloshing of someone approaching. He fell back into the trench, gun drawn just in case it was an intruder.  

“Father?” the wispy voice came.

“Matthew?”

“Mhm.”

Thank God . Arthur pulled his son back into the trench while the rest of the men leaped back in themselves. He dragged Matthew back to their little makeshift room. Matthew should have been back an hour ago, and Arthur had been relieved from his post to rest two hours ago, but his body refused to stay still on the stiff cot.

When they got into the low light of their dugout Arthur spotted the splatters of crimson that covered his son’s cheek and chest. “Please tell me that’s not your–”

“It’s not Dad,” Matthew sighed, taking a seat on his cot, “Don’t worry.”

“You…”

Matthew smiled softly, but something bubbled underneath the young serene face. It made Arthur’s stomach twist.  Him too…Grown too soon.

“You should have seen Ludwig and Gilbert’s faces. Never thought such stone-cold eyes could become hot with panic."

“Did you–”

“They escaped before I got the chance,” Matthew scoffed, pulling his helmet off and tossing it to the corner.

Arthur grabbed his canteen and an old rag. Wetting it, he began to scrub off the blood. “This is our life,” he muttered, more to himself than Matthew.

“I know…Which is why I am going to be there for all of you. I won't let them lay a hand on you.”

The icy caverns that were once Matthew’s eyes burned bright and hot like blue stars. He was no longer that little boy in the bush, and he was no longer that young dominion that needed Arthur to fall back on. He was Canada, wild and rugged, a force to be reckoned with. What Arthur had always wanted him to be. But now, he just hoped that sweet little boy was still in there somewhere.

- - -

“I-I don’t want you to push yourself.”

Arthur waved his hand at a fretting Matthew. Oh, how the tables turned in the last few decades. “I’ll be fine. A little under the weather, sure, but it shouldn’t be nearly as bad as it is on the fourth.”

Matthew sucked on his mug slightly. “I-I guess we could share a cake or something.”

“Come now. You’re celebrating 150 years of independence! That deserves something more than just a cake.”

“I have the big party with Alfred.”

Arthur always felt the chill of annoyance whenever Matthew mentioned his combined party with Alfred. But he knew Matthew never liked to be the center of attention. If this was how Matthew chose to celebrate, Arthur couldn’t tell him ‘no.’ Matthew wasn’t a child anymore.

“So a cake is all you really want?”

“Mhm. Your red velvet is the best.”

Arthur smirked. “And when did we agree that I would be the one baking it?”

Matthew just smiled serenely. “I’ve known you most of my life. You wouldn’t miss out on a chance to bake. Especially for your children.”

Arthur tried to mock offense, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. His precious owl-eyed boy, who wore his heart on his sleeve, had finally grown into himself. Still kind, but now full of so much fire. Arthur couldn’t have been prouder

Translation:

Je suis sûr que vous avez entendu parler de moi. Quel est votre nom = I’m sure you’ve heard of me. What’s your name?